The Duke Who Loved Me Page 3

  “Can’t resist.” Henry appropriated the chair opposite James and signaled the steward, pointing at James’s brandy glass. “How does it feel to have paid off all your bills?”

  “Oddly unsatisfying,” said James. “Rather a feeling of game over.”

  “Poor old you.” There was that trace of bitterness in Henry’s voice again. “Happy for you, you know,” he added, as if he had heard it as well.

  James nodded. He knew it was true. Henry was a good-natured fellow, quick and convivial, which should serve him well among the diplomats. Had he needed some specific sum of money, James would have offered it. But that wasn’t the issue. Circumstances were pulling them apart.

  “I’ve been trotting Stephan Kandler about town,” Henry went on, in a clear bid to change the subject.

  “Who is he?” James asked, conceding the shift.

  “Aide to a German princeling who’s having a look around Europe.”

  “Some relative of the Regent?”

  “No,” Henry replied. “Nothing close anyhow. They come from one of those small countries south of Prussia. Not important enough for the government to pay attention. My uncle asked me to lend a hand.” He shrugged, not needing to say more. Henry’s uncle, well established in the Foreign Office, was important to his possible future there.

  The second brandy arrived. They sipped together and talked of mutual friends and upcoming races, passing a pleasant hour before Henry said, “I must go. It’s Lady Castlereagh’s ball tonight. I’m ordered to support my sister’s come-out.”

  James felt himself stiffen again.

  Henry held up his hands, palms out. “Steady on, James. Not a hint. You wouldn’t like her. She wouldn’t like you.”

  “Are you certain? They all like me now.” James heard the bitterness in his tone this time.

  “Not Charlotte. She despises everyone. Almost everyone.”

  James laughed. “An unusual girl. Perhaps I’ll come with you.” He didn’t want to become a recluse. The idea made him think of his great-uncle and shudder. That would never do. Besides, he liked many things about society, or he had. Surely if he kept appearing and fending off all advances the marriage mart would recognize the futility of pursuit?

  “Oh, do. Think how it will add to my consequence to be seen with the new Duke of Tereford.”

  “Useless fribble, you have no consequence.”

  “Exactly why I need to ride your coattails,” answered Henry with a grin.

  Laughing, they went out together.

  ***

  The third set at Lady Castlereagh’s grand ball was a waltz. Cecelia was about to accept an invitation to join it when James appeared and overawed the young man who had bowed before her. “You will dance with me,” James said to her. The first gentleman faded back into the crowd without a word.

  Cecelia was both piqued and amused. “Is that a command, Your Grace?”

  “I will beg, if you like.”

  She gave him an inquiring glance, which also noted that he looked particularly handsome in his evening dress. The black hair and blue eyes were always a striking combination, and he had the face of an ancient statue. Apollo. Or perhaps Mercury. No, Mercury was too…willowy. Definitely Apollo with that body strengthened by all forms of sport. And why in the world was she thinking of that?

  “If I am dancing with you, no ambitious mama can try to shove her hopeful offspring at me,” he said.

  “Your flattery puts me to the blush.”

  “Why should I flatter you?”

  “Why indeed?”

  He offered his arm. She took it, and they walked out to join the other couples. The music began. He set a hand at her waist, held the other in warm fingers, and they whirled away. Cecelia was aware that her gown of pale-rose gauze looked very fine. She also knew from past experience that their steps were well matched. She sank into the pleasure of waltzing with him. It was a delight, floating across the floor, guided by a sure hand, closer than they came in any other way. She felt her cheeks warm with more than exertion. Once again she was required to remind herself that she did not love James Cantrell. That would be an exceedingly foolish thing to do, and she was not a fool.

  “I’m out of sorts,” he said after a while.

  “You don’t say so?”

  “I beg your pardon, but the…torrent of young ladies that has rushed in my direction since my great-uncle died is irritating. Two of them came to Jackson’s boxing saloon yesterday.”

  “Surely not inside?”

  “No, they were loitering by the door, waiting to pounce when I came out. One of them claimed to have hurt her ankle in order to beg for my assistance. This after they had not begged anything of the two men who preceded me out the door.”

  “They can’t have been of the first stare.” The Bond Street address was not a place where proper young ladies would linger.

  “I’m sure you’re right. But that did not prevent them from descending on me to titter and admire my ‘physique.’ It was scandalous.”

  “I’ve never known you to worry about scandal.”

  “I shall start if it is an excuse to evade that sort of simpering. I begin to understand Uncle Percival. Perhaps I’ll retreat to the town house and refuse all visits.”

  “You’d do better to encourage them, insist even. And then decree that every visitor must take a bit of rubbish away with them.”

  He burst out laughing. “You are always a relief.”

  “Am I?”

  “A breath of fresh air, at least. You have been obstinately honest since you were nine years old.”

  “Oh, before that, I think.” Her voice was very dry, but then she didn’t appreciate his patronizing tone. “Happy to be of service.”

  “Don’t take one of your pets.”

  “One of my what?”

  “Honesty is considered a virtue, is it not? I was paying you a compliment.”

  “In such a condescending tone.” She did her best to match it.

  “Nonsense.”

  This was one of his favorite words, and he always said it with complete conviction. He absolutely believed he was right. Well, if she was honest, he was infuriating. Cecelia started to tell him so, but he whirled her in a beautiful turn, and for a moment she felt as if she was flying. He held her so easily, his arm so steady and strong. It made her feel light as a feather.

  “Also we have known each other so long, we need make no pretense to silly sentiment. I find that quite restful.”

  Cecelia plunked back down to earth.

  “As well as being the same sort of person,” he added.

  “Sort?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t think I do really, James.”

  “We have no ridiculous ideas about falling in love.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Come, come, Cecelia. You have refused at least four offers that I know of.”

  “And if I have, is this not an argument for a belief in love? Perhaps I am waiting for it to come along.”

  “Good grief, are you?”

  “For a while I was. But it…hasn’t.” He looked appalled at this slip of her tongue, which was lowering. Cecelia knew that James never thought of her and love in the same breath. The two were completely separate things in his mind. She ought to be the same. She was. She’d stifled her feelings about him years ago. They were gone! Or, if by any chance they weren’t, they would never be allowed out, even though he’d begun talking of love. She would not have her feelings trampled by consternation, perhaps even revulsion. Horrifying. They were gone!

  “And so you gave up that ridiculous illusion,” James said, looking smug. “There, you see. We are the same.”

  Cecelia didn’t try to deny it. That would be perilous and futile and other dangerous things she didn’t care to con
template. Instead, she would enjoy the fact that there was no one else she could talk to as openly as she did to James. “Love is an illusion?”

  “The sort that the poets maunder on about, certainly. Look at me. I shall marry as a duty, to provide an heir for the dukedom. And a hostess I suppose.” The latter idea seemed distasteful to him. “Another portrait for the long line of languishing females in the gallery.” He grimaced. “Not that anyone can see them in the house’s current state.”

  “That does sound rather dreary.”

  “Well, marriage is dreary, as far as I can see,” said James.

  Cecelia wondered if his parents had loved each other. She hadn’t known them. Hers… They’d been affectionate, now and then. But she suspected that her mother had loved her daughter far more than her distracted husband. It was not an example she wished to emulate.

  “I challenge you to name a happy one,” James added.

  “The Tuttles and the Burleighs and the Cranes,” replied Cecelia promptly.

  James shrugged as they danced. “They seem contented enough, I suppose. But what do we know of their private moments? Nothing.”

  “And so they may be as rhapsodic as the poets claim.”

  He made a contemptuous sound. And as if on cue the music ended, and they drew apart. As they always would, Cecelia acknowledged. He saw her as a fixture in his life, useful once, safe and familiar now. But nothing more. She must be reconciled to that.

  James declared that he intended to take refuge in the card room and asked where she wished to be taken. Cecelia noticed her four new acquaintances sitting in gilt chairs on one side of the ballroom. They had not been waltzing because they were waiting to be approved by the patronesses at Almack’s. She accepted James’s escort over to them and his bow of farewell.

  During their shopping expeditions Cecelia had discovered that these girls were intelligent, curious, and ambitious far beyond the next ball or the roster of eligible young men being brandished at them. They had moved to first names already and were on the way to becoming good friends.

  “Did you enjoy your waltz with the new duke?” asked Sarah Moran. “They say Tereford is the handsomest man in England.”

  “They,” repeated Charlotte Deeping contemptuously. “I am already sick to death of them, whoever they are. If indeed they exist.”

  Looking over her shoulder Cecelia watched James stroll through the doorway on the other side of the large room. Dozens of feminine gazes followed him.

  “You must admit that he is handsome,” said Sarah.

  Charlotte rolled her dark eyes. “My brothers admire him.” In the satirical tone she used to speak of her siblings, Charlotte began ticking off points on her fingers. “He is ‘handy with his fives,’ which apparently signifies an ability to knock people down whenever he pleases. He is ‘up to every rig and row in town’ and ‘complete to a shade,’ absolutely ‘top of the trees.’ I take this to mean that he sets fashions and possesses polished manners. Of course he has money and now a title, which boost people’s opinions, I’m sure.”

  “And the coldest eyes,” said Harriet Finch.

  Cecelia wondered at this. James’s blue eyes cold? She’d seen them blaze. Mostly with anger, admittedly.

  “My mother considers him a very eligible parti,” Harriet continued. “She tried to maneuver him into dancing with me. He refused as if I was a beetle to be crushed beneath his heel.”

  The eager mama would account for the coldness, Cecelia acknowledged. James hated having debs pushed on him. But this reference to insects must be an exaggeration. He had fine manners. She’d noticed that Harriet was eager to despise society.

  “Lydia Pottington said he’s the most selfish creature on earth. Is he really?” Ada Grandison asked. She turned to Cecelia. “You’re quite well acquainted with him, aren’t you?”

  “Cecelia knows everyone,” said Charlotte.

  It wasn’t a jab. By this time Cecelia understood Charlotte’s sardonic manner. “I am,” she answered.

  “Well, then.” Ada Grandison gazed at her. Cecelia had discovered that Ada was already engaged to a duke of her own, so her interest was clearly more abstract.

  The others waited. Cecelia thought they were likely to accept her opinions about society and follow her lead, a heavy responsibility. What should she say to them about James? He was selfish. Didn’t she often tell him so? He could be cold, and he saved his sympathies for his close friends. Indeed, he scarcely noticed other people. And when accused of these failings, he simply shrugged.

  Yet Cecelia found herself reluctant to voice these familiar criticisms. It was one thing to throw them in his face, and quite another to share them with people who knew nothing of him or his history. “He can be a bit toplofty,” she said. And was at once conscious of a desire to defend him. Better to change the subject. “Have all your new gowns arrived?”

  They had begun a discussion of fashion when all four girls’ eyes shifted, focusing on something behind Cecelia. What could be making them look so apprehensive? Cecelia turned her head, and was treated to the spectacle of Lady Wilton bearing down on them in full glare.

  James’s grandmother, a small, gnarled woman with snow-white hair and a nose designed for looking down on her inferiors—a wide and ever shifting group seemingly—wore a rich gown of deep-green velvet, magnificent emeralds, and a sour expression. She’d passed the venerable age of eighty without any sign of mellowing. Cecelia had sometimes wondered if she’d been such a bundle of prejudices and complaints when young—in the middle of the previous century—or had acquired them gradually along the way.

  She stopped beside them. Sarah leapt up to offer her a chair, and Lady Wilton took it as a matter of course, with no thanks. She looked at Cecelia’s companions one by one and visibly dismissed them. “I hear Tereford’s town house is in a dreadful state,” she said with her characteristic relish for the misfortunes of others.

  Cecelia had known that her maid and footman would make a good tale of their visit. But gossip about the place was inevitable in any case. James would have to bring in workers to restore order. “There is quite a bit of clearing up to do,” she replied.

  “Percival always was a disgrace.”

  Lady Wilton and the deceased duke were of the same generation, Cecelia remembered. Indeed, she had been married to his younger brother, Wilton Cantrell.

  “They threw him out of Eton for stealing, you know. Put it about that he was unwell. Odd sort of disease that made him cram his truck with other boys’ treasures. Seems he never got over it.” Lady Wilton loosed one of her disturbing cackles of laughter—loud and cruelly mocking. People nearby winced. Some moved farther away. Cecelia’s four new friends faded back a few degrees.

  “Not what I want to talk about,” Lady Wilton continued. “Percival’s dead.” She clenched hands twisted with rheumatics in her lap. “Something must be done about Ferrington.”

  “I’m not sure I—” began Cecelia.

  “Ferrington!” the old lady interrupted. “Surely you remember that my daughter married the Earl of Ferrington.”

  Cecelia didn’t know why she should be expected to recall a wedding that must have taken place long before she was born.

  “Not a bad match,” Lady Wilton conceded. “I arranged it, of course. And Fanny did her duty. Two sons in two years. I thought all was well settled. Though she died not long after the second one.”

  She spoke without any sign of grief. Pity for this woman’s daughter filled Cecelia. She saw the same emotion in the other young ladies’ eyes.

  “But then, Ralph turned out to be intractable,” Lady Wilton went on. “Practically from the moment he could walk.”

  “Ralph?”

  “The younger boy. Will you pay attention, Miss Vainsmede!”

  Cecelia looked around for a means of escape. A new set was forming, but no gentlemen looked likely to
approach them in the face of Lady Wilton’s fierce glare. And James was out of reach, naturally. Despite the fact that this was his grandmother.

  “Ralph fell prey to every vice imaginable,” the old lady continued. “I had to pack him off to America before he was eighteen.”

  “You did?”

  “His father was a drunkard. There was no one else to take charge.”

  Visions of a horrid childhood under this woman’s thumb rose in Cecelia’s mind. She could imagine acquiring a few vices herself under those circumstances.

  “He was matching his father bottle for bottle at fourteen!”

  “Ralph?”

  “That is who we are speaking of. Can you not keep up?” Lady Wilton’s frown grew more pronounced. “I had thought you a fairly intelligent girl. Do not tell me I was wrong.”

  This was too much. “It is just that I don’t know why you are telling me this story, Lady Wilton.”

  “Because my idiot elder grandson broke his neck on the hunting field without producing an heir,” the old woman replied. “And Ralph’s son inherited the earldom.”

  “I see, but why…”

  Lady Wilton bared her yellowed teeth. “This…American is the only one left,” she said. “The estate’s man of business had a dreadful time finding him, and he appears to be no better than Ralph. Gambling, of course, and who knows what else. Not to mention his moth…but none of that. We hauled him over here, though the fellow actually claimed he had no interest in being an earl!” She snorted her contempt at this idea. “Idiot. I informed him that I was capable of transforming even a graceless bumpkin into reasonable shape for his position. The next day, he was gone.”

  Thinking one could scarcely blame the man, Cecelia attempted a summary. And hopefully a conclusion to this strange conversation. “So one of your grandsons is the new Earl of Ferrington.”

  “Great-grandson,” Lady Wilton interrupted. “My daughter married at seventeen. Did as she was told like a sensible girl. Tereford’s father put it off until he was nearly twice that age. Always stubborn as an ox.” She sniffed irritably.

  “Great-grandson,” Cecelia amended, suppressing her impatience. “And he is missing.” She realized then that he was the subject of the letter she’d read in Tereford’s chaotic library.